


Midnight on the Shore of Lake Nostos

by nothingeverlost



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, POV Second Person, Presumed Dead, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-16
Updated: 2012-06-16
Packaged: 2017-11-07 22:00:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/435915
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingeverlost/pseuds/nothingeverlost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Her hands cup together to pour lake water over her head, and in the blink of an eye her blonde hair becomes brunette curls.  Her face is fuller and those are Belle’s blue eyes looking back at you.  </p>
<p>Post Skin Deep</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midnight on the Shore of Lake Nostos

**Author's Note:**

> I got the idea the second time I watched the scene between Charming and the Siren in Whatever Happened to Fredrick.

You’ve cursed yourself a dozen times and called yourself every name you know (it’s an impressively long list) but that doesn’t stop you from returning to Lake Nostos. You swore last time that it was _the_ last time, but just knowing that it’s there makes it hard to think about anything else. You don’t sleep, rarely eat, and not even deals hold any interest for you anymore.

You stand at the water’s edge, telling yourself that you still have a chance to turn back. You don’t _need_ this. It’s poison, and the fact that you know that and still stand here makes you the same kind of fool that you mock so often.

You’re too far gone to care.

The waters of the lake are as still as the surface of one of the Queen’s mirrors until you dip a single finger into the cool wetness. There’s a flicker of glowing green that few humans would be able to see, a message summoning the one you seek. It would be simple to send a frost through the lake, freeze the whole damn thing and kill everything within. You don’t; you’ve always been a weak man.

“Rumpelstiltskin.” She comes from the dark depths of the water, her smile so gleeful and self satisfied that you want to rip it off her face. She’s tempted thousands of men and more than a few women in her time, but you think she’s as ugly as you feel. “Did you bring me something?”

“Don’t I always?” Sirens are materialistic little things; you have a sack of sparkly baubles hidden nearby. They’re far enough from the water’s edge, though, that she won’t find them easily without your help.

“You said you were done dealing with me. You hurt my feelings.” Coyness slips into a pout, her lip quivering and eyes big. If she was closer you might slap the look off her face.

“I lied. I do that.” You halfway turn, flicking your fingers at the lake; it wouldn’t do to let her think she’s as important as she is. “If you’re not interested I could go.”

“You don’t really want to do that, do you Rumpelstiltskin? Not when I can do this.” Her hands cup together to pour lake water over her head, and in the blink of an eye her blonde hair becomes brunette curls. Her face is fuller and those are Belle’s blue eyes looking back at you. If it wasn’t for the shimmering white dress that clings to her in a way Belle would never allow she would be perfect.

“Take off that ridiculous crown, dearie.” There’s no point in pretending now; your choice was made up before you arrived.

“Why don’t you take it off for me?” She saunters across the water one step at a time, coming closer but giving you plenty of time to just look. For all that the dress is wrong it’s cut almost the same as Belle’s gold dress at the bodice, the swell of her breasts just visible.

In the moonlight her pale skin almost glows. You only comes to the lake when there’s moonbeams and shadows; the illusion doesn’t work so well in the light of day.

“I see you liked the diamonds.” Your fingers flick over the jewels at her earlobes, your payment from the last time you saw her. While she’s distracted preening over the gems your fingers wrap around the silver and pearls in her crown and yank it away, not caring that some of her hair snags as you wrench it free. It falls from your fingers and into the lake; she can retrieve it later. The dress is still wrong, but you’ll take care of that soon enough.

“You’re so strong, Rum.” Her hands stroke your shoulder, and though it’s probably your imagination you feel the chill of her touch through the dragonhide.

“And you talk too much.” She can get the accent right, and even knows Belle’s pet name for him, but her words still fall against your ear like screeches. “You know what I’m here for.”

“Brute.” She’s pouting again, but at least she knows better then to call you a beast. She did, the first time, and you learned that sirens may be able to breathe underwater but they can’t do so with hands wrapped around their neck. It was only when you brought her a necklace, the second time, that she forgave you.

“I can always leave and take my treasure with me.” You almost hope that she’ll say yes. If she refuses you then this can end.

You’ll probably only find a new way to torment yourself.

“Please stay.” Rather then lower her lashes or smile seductively she just looks at you, eyes open wide. It’s the closest she’s gotten to just right, and the knife in your gut twists a little more. Belle, the real Belle, would be disgusted by what you’re doing.

Belle is dead, and will never know how you’ve warped and twisted her memory just to have a few seconds of escape from the grief and guilt.

“Fine.” You snap your fingers and there’s a boat floating on the water, filled with pillow and a silken blanket of blue; not the blue of a midnight lake, but the warm color of a summer sky. “Ladies first.”

“Anything for you, my love.” She steps into the boat, and as she lays down the dress vanishes in vapor of white mist. She’s bare except for the earrings and a necklace that is almost, but not quite, the same as Belle’s.

“What did I say about talking?” You’re looming over her in less time than it takes to think about being in the boat, her wrists flat under your hands and anything she might say smothered under your mouth. She tastes wrong. You only had one kiss, one all too brief taste of Belle’s mouth that ended before you understood what was happening, but it was enough to know that there is salt and something bitter where there should be vanilla and berries.

It’s enough to remind you that she looks like your true love, but there’s no danger here of True Love’s kiss. You threw that chance away, and maybe you did it to salvage your chance at finding your son, but you still don’t have him either and now Belle’s lost for good.

Now that she’s not touching the lake water, the skin beneath you is almost as warm as it should be. She arches against you, saying with her body what you won’t allow her to say in words. Sirens are impatient things, but you’re the one calling the shots, not her. You release her hands, but you’re not giving up anything else.

Her mouth is open, silently asking for another kiss, and that’s enough of a reason to slide down her body and instead give your attention to her breasts. There’s a freckle just above the left nipple, and that one little bit of discolored skin relieves you. It’s the same every time, that tiny mark. It’s specific, and it tells you that this isn’t some abstract idea of what a woman looks like, but it’s what your Belle looked like, under her clothes. You saw her knees once, when she’d gotten a cramp and had her dress pulled up so you could massage her calf, but that’s as close as you got to intimacy. Physical intimacy; emotionally no one’s ever come as close to knowing you as she did.

You taste that freckle first, with just the tip of your tongue, and then the nipple itself. You can feel it pucker against your tongue, and that makes you suckle harder. Sucking becomes a nip with your teeth; when you pull away there’s a faint red mark. It’s proof she can be touched, and changed. It’s a human response, even though you know that the woman you touch isn’t truly human.

You want to bite her all over, to mar that perfectly white skin and leave something of yourself behind, even if it will be washed away by the waters. In the end you only bite once, a perfect ring at the swell of her right breast, but there’s a deep red mark at her neck and half moons at her hips where your claws dig into her skin to keep her from bucking.

“Please,” she moans in a tone you never heard from Belle, but it’s close enough to what you want that you don’t silence her. You also don’t push away her hands when she tugs at the fastenings of your trousers. You’re aching to be released, just like on those not rare enough occasions when you dream of her and wake to throbbing and sharp pains. On those nights it’s your own hand that brings you to what could laughingly be called satisfaction. Now you have her slim fingers and delicate touch.

“I want you, Rumpelstiltskin. Don’t you want me?” Your leather trousers fall to your knees, and you look down to find her stroking the length of you with a single finger. You look up, and find those laughing blue eyes watching you so intently.

“Always.” You’re lost in that moment when all you know is eyes that look right and a body that trembles with readiness. There’s a soft gasp when you sheath yourself inside of her, and that sounds right as well. Her body is tight around you, but slick enough to know you’re not hurting her. You don’t want to hurt her, in these moments when she really feels like Belle.

Your fingers tangle in her chestnut curls thumbs brushing against the side of her face. Her eyes are dark, with desire and shadows. Her mouth is open and you cover it with your own, trying to forget the wrongness of the taste. Her tongue strokes yours, with hesitancy at first and then more boldness as she follows your lead. Your clothes, with the exception of your trousers, are still on but that doesn’t stop her from running her hands over your back, sneaking under your shirt until she’s touching skin.

“Belle.” You moan her name as the need becomes something tighter, coiled up in your gut.

“Yes. Gods, yes.” Her legs wrap around the back of your thighs, pulling you in deeper, demanding you take everything. You can’t restrain yourself any more, your hips thrusting wildly until you’re tensing, exploding, shaking. You shout out the name of the woman you see, not the one you’re really with. 

You don’t even notice that she’s come too until you’ve collapsed on her chest and feel her spasming around you.

“That’s just how it can be, lover, anytime you want.” The accent is fading, and so is the momentary pleasure. You sit up, disgusted with her, but more with yourself. 

As she stretches the illusion begins to fade, her hair becoming straighter and lighter, her face changing shape. “We could do that more often, if you liked. There’s nothing wrong with a fantasy.”

You push yourself back to balance on your legs as you pull up your trousers, not saying a word. She stays nude, and even has the audacity to stroke her breast lightly with two fingers, looking at you with eyes that are too grey-green and not enough blue.

“I look forward to seeing you, even without the gifts.” She’s smiling the smile that hundreds have died to see, but you only toss the blanket over her body. It makes you angry that the freckle is no longer on her breast; her skin is a flawless and unblemished, too perfect to be human.

“Then you won’t care if I don’t give them to you?” A deal is a deal, but you don’t see any reason to pay her more than she asks.

“You promised.” She’s pouting again. You can’t stand the sight of her anymore, and snap your fingers. You’re standing at the base of the tree where you’re stored the babbles you brought; they’re heavier in your hand then you remember.

“These little things?” You pour them into your hands as you reach the shore, careful not to step into the water where she has sway.

“I want them.” Her eyes aren’t on you anymore; they’re on the gems and gold in your hand. Anything that sparkles, especially things that sparkle in the moonlight, is greedily craved by the Siren. “We have a deal. You owe me.”

“Oh, they’re all yours, dearie.” You fling everything into the lake, knowing that she won’t be able to stand the lure for long.

“I could make you come down and pick those all up.” Her eyes flare black, but she’s sadly mistaken if she thinks you give a damn.

“Not today. Maybe another time.” Maybe next time you’ll let her pull you down into the water, to live in midnight shadows. Maybe it would become a watery grave, and in a dozen years you won’t be anything but a story told to frighten children.

This time, though, you turn and walk away, and try to tell yourself that you won’t come back. Belle would hate it. 

Belle is dead.

Maybe you are too, and that’s why you can’t stay away from Lake Nostos. It’s a hell of your own making.


End file.
